Refugees
by beesandbrews
Summary: An unexpected text leads to an even more unexpected reunion. It starts out well enough, but Sherlock Holmes is a troubled man. Fortunately, troubled men are Irene Adler's speciality. Set post-series 2.


_I'm not dead either. Let's have dinner. – SH_

Irene stared at the screen of her mobile. The mobile that she'd known for months she should disconnect from the wall charger and throw into the sea. Only one person had the number to that particular device and he was dead.

Except, apparently not.

She read the message again and then kissed the screen before bursting into laughter that quickly dissolved into tears. It was incomprehensible. Until her retirement Irene had been unparalleled in her skills as a tamer of men and women. A dominatrix extraordinaire. She was Miss Adler: Wielder of the Whip, who kept her emotions under as tight a rein as her most recalcitrant clients. The only chink in her impenetrable armour had been her fascination with Sherlock Holmes. He of the aloof gaze and piercing intellect who had got under her skin in a way she'd not thought possible. When she learned of his death Irene had grieved to the depths of her soul.

Now she was ecstatic. Her hands trembled as tears of joy streamed down cheeks that ached from smiling. "Yes," she typed. "By all means, do drop 'round." She sent him her details, heedless of the possibility one of her enemies had found her Achilles heel and was luring her into a trap.

* * *

Despite his travel worn appearance it was definitely Sherlock Holmes standing on her doorstep getting pelted by an unexpected rain shower. Considerably more composed than she had been a day prior, Irene gave him the once over, noting the changes in his appearance as she ushered him into her cottage. "The strawberry blond does nothing for you."

Sherlock shrugged back at her. "Travelling incognito. A necessity under the circumstances, as is my need for sanctuary. You, on the other hand, are incomparable as ever."

She dipped her gaze, irrationally pleased by the compliment. "Flattery, my dear sir, will get you nearly everywhere. Do come in and make yourself at home."

His hand engulfed hers when it was offered and Irene led Sherlock into the snug little sitting room. A coal fire burned in the hearth, warding off the persistent damp that seemed to cling to the stone walls. "It's a far cry from Belgravia, but at the moment it suits me. Give me your things. I'll put them in the kitchen to dry."

Sherlock handed over his anorak and one of his rucksacks. He frowned at the second one and removed a violin case from it before relinquishing the sodden bag. Irene gave him another once over. "Best give me the rest. Your jeans are soaked and spattered with mud. Did you walk all the way from the village?"

"The bus wasn't running. The publican at The Gull said it often doesn't when the weather turns foul. No one wants to go anywhere, so there's no point."

Irene gave him a philosophical smile. "The vagaries of a rural lifestyle I'm afraid. Public transportation is notoriously unreliable. Still, most of the time we manage." She raised the first rucksack. "Are the clothes in here clean?"

Sherlock considered for a moment and then shrugged. "Less dirty, perhaps."

"Right. You have a bath and I'll wash the lot." Irene smiled as she remembered the first surveillance photos she'd seen of her guest. "I'm sure there's a sheet around here somewhere that will fit you whilst your clothes are laundered."

"One time," Sherlock replied querulously. "And it was only to make a point to Mycroft."

Irene raised an eyebrow, amused as ever by Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. "I did wonder what the story behind that photograph was. Please do elaborate."

Sherlock handed over his jumper. "I'd rather not." He started on the buttons of the shirt underneath. "Why Ireland? And why this particular storm-swept corner of it?"

It was Irene's turn to shrug. "No one knows me here. Out in this desolate bit of wilderness, no one would think to look for me either." She worked free the remaining buttons and toyed with the cloth of the flannel shirt, something Sherlock of Baker Street would never be caught dead in. "We can catch up after you're clean and warm. Come on, clothes off. Bathroom's through there."

"Yes, miss," Sherlock replied as he undid the zip of his jeans.

Irene watched him disrobe with a clinical eye. There were cuts and scrapes on his back, fresh bruises on his torso and chest, and he looked as if he'd missed more than a few meals. "Take your time. Feel free to avail yourself of the razor and the toothbrush."

Sherlock retreated to bathe. Irene carried his discarded clothing and rucksacks into the laundry. She unpacked both bags, sorting the contents. There were several small bundles wrapped securely in oilcloth among the worn clothes. Irene opened one of them, found an ugly snub nosed revolver, and decided perhaps it would be better to let Sherlock keep at least some of his secrets. She set the packets on the ironing board, hung the bags, and inspected the clothing. It all looked as if he'd been living rough. His shirts had been torn and repaired. The knee of his second pair of jeans patched. Only the socks and underwear seemed new. All of Sherlock's meagre wardrobe was consigned to the washing machine even though most of it, in Irene's opinion, looked as if it would be better suited for the rag bin.

It all seemed a bit surreal as she listened to Sherlock Holmes splash in the bath, and yet as she moved efficiently back into the kitchen and checked on the progress of their meal, there he was only a few feet away, clearly revelling as he soaped and scrubbed. He began to sing, belting out Figaro in a light, pleasing baritone. Irene laughed and felt her lips tremble. She brushed at her eyes to keep the tears at bay and went to find Sherlock something to wear.

She did a quick inspection of her airing cupboard. Her neighbour Fergal Doolin was roughly Sherlock's height, although much more heavily muscled. Irene had the mod cons the Doolin farm lacked. They had skills she'd yet to acquire. Maggie Doolin, Fergal's wife, bartered eggs and baked goods for use of the washing machine and collected her clean laundry when she delivered bread and pastry. Occasionally, if she was rushed, she'd miss an item or two, but today she'd left the cupboard bare. Irene hadn't anything of her own that would fit Sherlock, not even a dressing gown. She had teased him earlier about a sheet, but damn the man, it would have to do.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom blotting water from his hair. The ill-matched and scraggly growth of dark beard had been scraped clean from his face. He stood in front of the fire, letting it warm him, unconcerned about his lack of dress. "Much better," he sighed contentedly. Irene handed over the sheet. Sherlock chuckled and wrapped it around his frame like a toga.

"I'm sadly lacking in laurel leaves," Irene said as she eyed her house-guest. "Although I dare say I could manage a bit of holly."

"Festive, but unnecessary," Sherlock replied. "Is that lamb I smell?"

They ate without conversation. Irene watched as Sherlock steadily worked his way through two plates of stew, several slices of bread spread thickly with butter and covered with planks of farmhouse cheddar, and then rounded it all off with apple pie and coffee.

"Thank you." Sherlock rose and carried his plate to the sink. "It's been some time since I've had a decent meal."

Irene cleared the rest of the table and then put Sherlock's clothes in the tumble dryer. "We can have brandy in front of the fire." Sherlock yawned behind his hand. "Or if you'd rather retire?"

"I don't want to be a dull guest."

Irene gave him a reproving look. "Don't be stupid. Come to bed, Sherlock, before you fall asleep where you sit."

By the time he fed and banked the fire for the night, Irene had changed into a silk nightdress and slipped under the bedclothes. Sherlock hesitated near the doorway, seemingly taking the domesticity of it all in. He gave Irene an ironic smile and then shut off the lights, dropped his sheet, and climbed in next to her. They lay side by side for a long minute. Irene leaned over and sought Sherlock's lips. He kissed her back, closed mouthed but not without affection.

Irene pulled away. "I take it this means you worked things out with your doctor friend?"

Moonlight filtered through the curtains. It threw Sherlock's profile into sharp relief as he leaned back with his arms cushioned against the pillows. "We came to an arrangement, or at least we started to. My death threw something of a spanner into the works."

"He doesn't know you're alive?" Irene tried to keep the surprise out of her voice and almost succeeded.

"The success of my ruse depended on his not knowing. I'm afraid my return is going to come as something of a shock."

Irene sat up. She stared at Sherlock in utter disbelief. "Darling Sherlock, you do have a way with an understatement. Do you have _any_ idea of what your text did to me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You seemed pleased to see me. You even invited me back into your bed. Are you saying John won't feel the same?"

Irene considered, she didn't know John Watson well but during their short acquaintance she'd come to the conclusion that he was a man of great loyalty and deep feelings. His reaction to Sherlock's supposed death, as portrayed by the media, had only solidified her impression. The photographs she'd seen were those of a man who'd been completely gutted by his loss.

"I'm saying tread carefully. What's acceptable to you and me won't be to someone of his temperament. Now, unless you'd care to seduce me, I suggest you get some sleep." She turned over onto her side, disappointed that Sherlock did the same.

The clock on the wall chimed the hour. A few minutes after that, Sherlock gave into his exhaustion. Irene rolled over and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and the way his features softened as he lapsed deeper into sleep. She reached out and almost touched his cheekbone, letting her not-quite caress drift over a tangle of bleached curls that wanted proper trimming. With a sigh she nestled close, pulling his pliant fingers to rest against her cheek. Eventually, Irene drifted into an uneasy sleep, but it didn't last. She woke up alone, roused to consciousness by sounds of restless motion. "Sherlock?"

He was sitting in front of the fire, staring at the coals with a moody expression, a glass of brandy in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He had uncased his violin and it lay across his knees.

"What's the matter?"

He shrugged and the sheet wrapped around his shoulders slipped. "I don't sleep well. Never have, not really, but these last few months … Let's just say it's become habit not to rest for more than an hour or two at a time."

"No wonder you look like hell." Irene poured herself a glass. "You're safe here, you know that?" She settled on the other end of the sofa and watched Sherlock take a deep drag on his cigarette. He exhaled and the smoke formed a lazy plume.

"I know. But I needed to think. And you, my dear Irene, even in sleep, are a distraction."

She dipped her chin, almost, but not quite mollified by the compliment. "Perhaps you need a sounding board."

"Perhaps." He tossed the cigarette over the spark guard and into the fireplace and then picked up his violin. "Do you mind?"

Irene shook her head. "I suppose there's a story there as well?"

Sherlock plucked a string and then adjusted a tuning peg. "I won it off a Russian sailor during a card game. An indulgence, I'll admit, but even I have my weaknesses." His gaze when he met her eyes was significant.

He tucked the violin under his chin and touched the bow to the strings. The air he played was haunting and more than a little melancholy. It was a traditional tune heard often in the local pub, but never had it been rendered with such heartfelt passion.

"You were thinking of home," Irene said when Sherlock finished. He raised an eyebrow at her. She smiled back. "It's one of my talents, getting inside people's heads, knowing what they need before they do. It's why I was so successful in my profession. You want to go home, but you're afraid. Why are you afraid, Sherlock? Do you fear rejection?" Irene gazed placidly as Sherlock's eyes became the colour of flint.

He stared back at her, his expression a strange admixture of admiration and offence. Finally he set his violin aside and reached for another cigarette. He held it between his fingers in silent contemplation and then abruptly cast it back into the enamelled box on the coffee table. "It's crossed my mind that those I left behind might not be pleased to see me. Your comment earlier reinforced that hypothesis."

"Ah." Irene nodded. "But it's not generic 'those' you're worried about, it's a certain 'he'. And I'm not referring to that brother of yours." She glanced at Sherlock, seeking an affirmation and the subtle change of his countenance revealed she'd assessed the situation correctly.

"If you used the same approach with him as you did with me, I could see your point. I was in Dublin when your death was announced. I saw his photograph in the London papers and the bits on the news. With the depth of emotion John feels his love might well turn to anger at being so callously deceived. You, my dear Sherlock, must bring out his inner White Knight."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't follow."

Irene sighed and reached for a cigarette of her own. "He gets off on adventure, doesn't he?" She lit up and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "The mild mannered healer with the heart of a lion, that's your John. So indulge him. Set a scene and let him rescue you. You may still get a sock on the jaw, but I will lay you odds that it will be followed by a kiss."

"And if he's moved on. Mourned his adventuring days and settled into a new life?"

Irene took a long drag on her cigarette. She stretched out her hand and admired the burning tip. "Nothing last forever." She rose and her cigarette joined Sherlock's among the coals. "Now, as you once said to me, let's stop talking about John. I'm much more interested in you, dear Sherlock." Irene tugged at the sheet that rode over his shoulders and pooled around his hips. "Why are you here?"

"I'm tired." A simple statement that wasn't a lie, but wasn't the whole truth either. Anyone who looked at Sherlock Holmes could tell he was physically exhausted, but the cause of his fatigue had left him with a soul deep weariness that was going to take more than sleep to heal.

He needed time and he trusted Irene to give it to him. She understood. Her own troubles had caused her to retreat to this desolate place, far from everything familiar. In their own ways they were both refugees, trying to build on the foundation of the lives they'd left behind. Irene gave him a tiny smile, as one might a difficult child. "Well, we can spend the rest of the night here before the fire talking, or we can go back to bed. Which is it to be?"

"Have I a choice?" Sherlock asked.

"We all have a choice, darling," Irene replied. "But this time, I think I'll make it for you." She extended her hand. "Come along. It's time for all good detectives to be tucked up for the night."

Sherlock caught his foot on the sheet as he rose and stumbled gracelessly. Irene caught him and they swayed, performing an awkward dance. Finally, Sherlock used his greater size and weight to sweep Irene off her feet and into a proper embrace. She met his gaze and saw his expression had grown wistful.

"Irene." He drew out the syllables of her name, loading it with sentiments better left unvoiced.

"I know," she replied but leaned up to kiss him anyway. "Now come to bed."


End file.
